miikishii+

The coffee in the DSO breakroom tastes like battery acid today. You swallow it anyway, pushing your glasses up your nose with one finger as you flip through another case file. It’s standard procedure, nothing urgent, just the usual paperwork Leon now insists on organizing in rainbow order because it "makes the day less gray." His return from Raccoon City, cured, has done wonders for his level of whimsy. It seems endless nowadays. You love every second of it.

Across from your desk cubicle, Leon’s leaned back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, murmuring something about requisition forms. His boots are propped on the desk, scuffed toe nudging a framed photo of the two of you from last year’s holiday party- his grin lopsided, your curls escaping from what was supposed to be an elegant updo. He catches you staring and winks, mouthing love you around the phone receiver like it’s effortless. Oh, the Kennedy charm.

Your vision tunnels for half a second, the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly too bright. You grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening as you count silently, until the dizziness recedes. It’s been worse lately, the way your pulse spikes when you stand, the way your fingers tremble holding your pen. But Leon’s finally happy, finally safe, finally here, and you won’t be the thing that dims that.

____

The briefing room is too fucking warm when you file in with the rest of the team. Leon drops into the seat beside you, knee brushing yours under the table like a secret. "You good, hon?" he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your wrist. His hands are warm. You nod, squeezing his fingers once before letting go.

The briefing drags on- mission updates, logistics, something about Eastern European bioterrorist activity- but the words blur together as your throat tightens. Your skin feels both too hot and too cold, sweat prickling at your temples despite the chill creeping up your spine. You cross your legs, then uncross them quickly (remembering your doctor’s words of warning), shifting in the chair as if movement might anchor you. Leon’s knee presses harder against yours, a silent question. You force a smile, mouthing bathroom before slipping out while the team debates extraction protocols.

The hallway tilts. You stumble into the employee bathroom, locking the stall door behind you just as your knees buckle. Slumping against the wall, you press your forehead to the cool tile and focus on the pattern- white squares, grout lines, anything to keep the room from spinning. Your pulse throbs in your throat, too fast, too loud, like a drumbeat gone wild. The fluorescent light hums above you, flickering once, twice, syncing with the stutter of your breath.

You don’t hear the bathroom door open over the rush of blood in your ears. Then… boots on tile, sharp and purposeful, stopping dead when they reach your stall. "Sweetheart?" Leon’s voice is low, urgent, his palm flat against the door. "Open up f’me." The lock clicks under your trembling fingers before you can protest, and then he’s there, crouching in front of you, his hands framing your face. His thumbs swipe at the sweat on your temples, his breath hitching when he sees the pallor of your skin. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, shrugging out of his jacket to drape it over your shoulders. "How long has this been happening?"

The lie dies on your tongue when he presses a cold paper towel to the back of your neck. You whimper at the sheer relief it brings, leaning into his touch as he counts aloud for you- four in, seven hold, eight out- his voice steady, familiar, the rhythm you’ve clung to since your diagnosis. "Don’t," you mumble when he moves to lift you, but he ignores you, sliding one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. "Leon, someone will see- "

"Let them." His grip tightens as he carries you through the empty hallway, past the break room where Hunnigan’s coffee cup sits abandoned mid-sip, past the elevators that ding cheerfully as if today is normal. The parking lot asphalt is blistering under the midday sun, but Leon doesn’t falter, adjusting his hold to dig for his keys. His Porsche unlocks with a quiet chirp, the leather seats already warm. "Feet up, gotta get that blood pressure stabilized," he orders, guiding your legs tenderly onto the dashboard before buckling you in.

The Porsche’s engine growls to life beneath you, a familiar vibration that usually soothes your nerves. Today, it feels distant, like white noise behind the cottony thickness in your head. Leon’s hand finds your knee, squeezing once before shifting gears, his grip tight on the wheel. "Keep your eyes open for me, okay, honey?" he murmurs, but the words slip through your fingers like sand. The city blurs past the window- neon signs smearing into streaks of color, the stoplights bleeding red into your half-lidded vision.

You jolt when cold plastic presses against your lips. Leon’s holding a water bottle one-handed, his other arm braced across your chest as the car slows to a stoplight. "Small sips, ‘kay?" he urges softly, and you obey, the water shockingly crisp against your dry throat. He watches you drink like it’s a lifeline, his thumb swiping a drop from your chin. The light turns green. His jaw clenches when you slump against the window, your temple tapping the glass with each turn. "Almost home," he lies- you know the route, know you’re still fifteen minutes out- but the promise is a warm weight in your chest.

____

The garage door groans shut behind you, swallowing the last of the daylight. Leon’s out of the car before the engine quiets, his door slamming as he rounds the hood. You fumble with the seatbelt, fingers clumsy and dazed, but he’s already there, clicking the release, his hands sliding under your arms. "I can walk, babe," you whine in protest, but your legs buckle the second your feet hit concrete. Leon exhales through his nose, a sound that’s equal parts frustration and fear, before hoisting you up against his chest. Your cheek presses into the familiar scent of his shirt, and the comforting smell of gunpowder and that stupidly expensive cologne Hunnigan got him last Christmas fills your senses.

The stairs creak under his weight, each step measured. You focus on the pulse in his neck, the way it jumps when you nuzzle closer. "Should’ve practiced carrying you upstairs more often," he mutters in disdain, but there’s no bite to it, just a roughness that makes your ribs ache. He hates how his body has aged. You adore it. The bedroom curtains are drawn, the dim light softening the edges of the room. He lowers you onto the mattress like you’re made of glass, his palms skimming your sides as if checking for cracks.

The bed dips under Leon’s weight as he sits beside you, his fingers already working to unlace your shoes. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable- just heavy with things unsaid. He peels off your socks one by one, his thumb brushing the arch of your foot in a way that makes your toes curl. “Ice pack or Gatorade first?” he asks, like it’s a menu and not a medical triage. His voice is steady, but his hands betray him, trembling ever so slightly as he sets your shoes aside. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to admit it. You know he won’t.

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already on his feet, rummaging through the nightstand drawer where he keeps the emergency supplies- bandages, painkillers, the neon orange ice pack you used to mock him for buying for his knees (you’d called him an old man and cackled). The crinkle of the packaging is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. “Lee,” you start, but he shakes his head, pressing the ice pack to the back of your neck before you can finish. The cold bites, sharp and sudden, and you gasp, arching away from it. His free hand cups your elbow, steadying you. “Too much?” he murmurs, already lifting it an inch.

You shake your head, swallowing hard as the cold seeps into your overheated skin. Leon watches you for a beat, his gaze unreadable, before turning to the mini-fridge tucked under his side of the bed- another relic from his “prepared for anything” phase pre- his return to Raccoon City. The bottle of blue Gatorade clicks open with a hiss. “Small sips,” he repeats, holding it to your lips like you might shatter if he hands it over. The sweetness is cloying and almost enough to make you nauseous, but you drink anyway, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to ground yourself. His pulse jumps under your touch.

When the bottle is half-empty, he sets it aside, his other hand still cradling the ice pack against your neck. His thumb strokes your jawline, slow and deliberate. “You’re shaking still, baby,” he fusses. You hadn’t even noticed. His palm slides down to your chest, pressing lightly over your heart. “And your pulse is still racing.” The words are clinical, but his voice cracks on the last syllable.

Leon exhales through his nose, long and slow, like he’s counting to ten in his head. You recognize the look- the one he gets right before he crashes the fuck out, all sharp edges and forced calm. But his fingers are gentle when they tuck a sweat-damp curl behind your ear. “Talk to me, please,” he says, and it’s not a request even though he forms it as one. It’s the same tone he uses when debriefing rookies after their first firefight: no bullshit, no room for evasion.

You press your lips together, focusing on the condensation sliding down the Gatorade bottle instead of his stare. The ice pack shifts as he adjusts it, his palm now cradling the base of your skull. “It’s not a big deal,” you mutter, but the words sound hollow even to you. Leon’s quiet for a beat, then two, his thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw.

“Bullshit.” The word lands softly, without heat. He leans in until his forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow. “You’re white as a sheet, your hands won’t stop shaking, and I just carried you up the damn stairs.” His voice drops, rougher now. “That’s a big fuckin’ deal, sweetheart.”

Something in your chest fractures at the nickname. You fumble for his free hand, tangling your fingers with his just to feel the calluses against your skin- proof that he’s here, solid, real. The confession spills out before you can stop it. “I didn’t want to ruin this.” Your voice cracks. “You’re finally okay. You’re here. You’re happy. And I- I-” The sentence strangles itself in your throat.

Leon goes very still. His grip tightens around your fingers. The ice pack slips from his other hand, thudding onto the mattress. “Ruin what?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel under tires. You can’t meet his eyes. Instead, you focus on the way his dog tags press against your collarbone, cool metal warming against your skin.

“This.” You gesture weakly between you, the movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through you. “You’re happy. After everything- the T-virus, the cure, Grace- you’re home, and you’re safe. I didn’t- ” Your breath hitches. “I didn’t want to be the thing that dragged you back down.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Leon’s jaw works, his teeth grinding audibly. Then, abruptly, he lets go of your hand- only to frame your face with both palms, forcing you to look at him. His thumbs swipe under your eyes, catching the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

“Listen to me.” His voice cracks. “Listen. You could never- ” He stops, exhales hard through his nose. When he speaks again, it’s slower, deliberate. “When I was sick, who stayed up with me every night?” His thumb traces your cheekbone. “Who learned how to give IV fluids because the nurses were taking too long?” A weak laugh escapes you at the memory- him scowling as you fumbled with the tubing, muttering about “government-trained incompetence.”

Leon’s grip gentles, his fingers threading into the curls at your temples. “Who held me when the fever dreams got bad?” His voice drops to a whisper, rough with memory. “You think I forgot any of that?”

The question hangs between you, weighted. You blink up at him, your vision blurring with unshed tears. His thumb catches one as it spills over, smearing it across your cheekbone like a confession. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, each word measured, deliberate. “You saved me.” His voice breaks on the last word, and something in your chest fractures clean in two.

Leon exhales sharply through his nose, his grip shifting to cradle the back of your head. He leans in until his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “Your illness isn’t different from what mine was,” he murmurs. “It’s just yours. And I’m your husband.” The word- husband- lands like a vow. “Let me carry this with you, sweetie.”

The sob that escapes you is ugly, raw, but Leon doesn’t flinch. He gathers you against his chest, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other tangled in your curls. Your glasses dig into your cheekbone, but you don’t pull away- can’t, not when he’s holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry- ” you gasp into his collar, the fabric damp with your tears. His shirt smells like gun oil, and that stupid cologne, and you clutch at it like a lifeline.

“Don’t.” The word is rough, but his hands are gentle as they skim down your back. “Don’t apologize.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering, like he’s memorizing the feel of your hair against his lips. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet. “Just promise me you won’t hide it again.” His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. “Promise me.”

You nod against his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt. The fabric stretches under your grip, but Leon doesn’t pull away; he just tightens his arms around you, his heartbeat steady against your ear. "Promise," you whisper, the word muffled but sincere. His exhale ruffles your hair, long and relieved, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

The ice pack has melted into a lukewarm blob between you, forgotten. Leon reaches over you to grab it, his bicep brushing your nose as he tosses it onto the nightstand with a wet plop. "Good," he mutters, but there’s no edge to it- just a quiet exhaustion that makes your throat tighten. His fingers trail down your arm, pausing at your wrist to press two fingers against your pulse point. You watch his brow furrow as he counts silently, his lips moving slightly. After a moment, he grunts. "Better."

You expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts until he’s lying beside you, one arm tucked under your neck, the other draped over your waist. His knee bumps yours as he settles in, the familiar weight of him grounding you more than any ice pack could. The bed creaks under the shift, and you curl into him instinctively, your forehead pressing into the hollow of his throat. His skin is warm, the scent of his cologne faded but still there, clinging to the collar of his shirt.

"Should’ve told me," he croons into your hair, his breath stirring your curls. It’s not an accusation- just a fact, spoken softly, like he’s reminding himself as much as you. His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades. "Would’ve noticed sooner if you weren’t so damn good at hiding it."

His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, the touch feather-light but steadying. You can feel the calluses catching on the fabric of your blouse- rough spots from years of gripping firearms, typing reports, holding you. The rhythm of his breathing slows to match yours, his chest rising and falling against yours in perfect sync. "You know what the worst part was?" he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. "Seeing you flinch every time I touched you lately." His thumb presses into the dip of your lower back, right where the muscle always knots up. "Like you thought I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t care."

The admission lodges in your throat like glass. You press your face harder into his collarbone, as if you could burrow under his skin and hide there. His heartbeat thrums against your cheek, a metronome keeping time with the tremors still ghosting through your limbs. "I didn’t want you to worry," you mumble into his shirt. The lie tastes bitter, even now.

Leon huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Too late, baby." His palm slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your curls with deliberate care. "You forget- I’m trained to notice shit." His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together and bringing them to his lips. He presses a kiss to your ring finger, his lips brushing against the two rings resting there, then he turns your wrist to trace the delicate blue veins with his lips. The gesture is so absurdly tender it makes your ribs ache. "Your pulse is still too fast," he murmurs against your skin.

You flex your fingers in his grip, testing the strength of his hold. "Maybe you’re just bad at taking vitals." The joke is weak, and it earns you a sharp pinch to your hip. Leon nips at your earlobe in retaliation, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. 

The pinch fades into warmth as Leon’s hand smooths over your hipbone, his thumb pressing into the divot there like he’s mapping you. “Smartass,” he chuckles, but there’s no heat in it- just that rough affection that makes your stomach flutter. His lips brush the shell of your ear, lingering long enough for his breath to raise goosebumps along your neck. “You’re lucky I like that about you.”

The bed creaks as he shifts, rolling you gently onto your back without breaking contact. His knee slots between yours, the fabric of his pants rough against your bare skin where your slacks have ridden up. You squint up at him- his hair mussed from your fingers, his collar crooked where you’d grabbed him- and something in your chest clenches at the way his eyes dart over your face, cataloging every flicker of discomfort.

The Gatorade bottle crinkles as Leon grabs it from the nightstand, holding it to your lips one-handed. “Drink,” he orders, but his free hand strokes your cheek when you grimace at the sweetness. “C’mon, just a few more sips f’ me, hon. Then I’ll let you steal my shirt and rest those pretty eyes, okay?”

You swallow obediently, the liquid cool against your throat. Leon watches the bob of your Adam’s apple like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day, his thumb swiping a stray drop from your chin. The bottle clicks when he sets it aside, his fingers immediately returning to your face, tracing the frames of your glasses. “These bothering you?” he asks, already sliding them off with practiced care.

The absence of your glasses leaves the room blurry, but Leon’s face is close enough that you can still see the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks. He folds the frames with one hand, setting them on the nightstand with a soft clink, then drags his knuckles down your temple like he’s smoothing away the indentations they left. “Better?” he murmurs, and you nod, though the room tilts slightly without the familiar weight on your nose. His palm cups your cheek, calloused and warm. “Good.”

Leon exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is grounding- his skin warm, the faint stubble along his jaw catching on your curls. "You're still shaking," he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours. His hands slide down to your wrists, fingers circling the delicate bones there like he's trying to steady them himself.

You flex your fingers against his grip, testing the tremors. "It'll pass, it always does," you whisper, but the words feel flimsy even as you say them. Leon's jaw tightens, his thumb pressing into your pulse point hard enough that you feel the echo of your own heartbeat against his skin.

Leon’s hands are firm but gentle as he guides you onto your side, his chest pressed flush against your back. One arm tucks beneath your head, the other draping heavily over your waist- anchoring you in place like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough. His knee nudges between yours, aligning your bodies until every tremor in your limbs transfers directly into his. "There," he croons into the nape of your neck, lips brushing the damp curls there. "Better."

You want to argue- you always do- but the weight of him is a hell of a drug, pulling you under with every steady breath against your spine. His fingers trace idle patterns over your ribcage, counting each flutter of your breath like a sniper counting heartbeats before a shot. "Still racing," he mutters, but his voice is soft now, frayed at the edges with exhaustion. The words vibrate through you, his stubble catching on your shoulder when he nuzzles closer.

Outside, a car alarm wails three streets over. Leon tenses instinctively, his grip tightening for half a second before he forces himself to relax. "Jesus fuckin’ christ," he grumbles, exhaling hot against your skin. "Somebody’s getting their tires slashed tonight." The joke is weak, but you feel the curve of his smile against your shoulder blade. His thumb finds the divot of your hipbone."Quit that, no threatening our neighbors tonight," you giggle, but there’s no heat in it- just the sluggish slur of someone three-quarters gone to sleep.

Leon hums, low and pleased, his palm smoothing up to splay over your sternum. "Feel that?" he whispers. His fingertips tap once, twice against your ribs in time with your slowing heartbeat. "Getting there." The praise is absurd- you’re not a damn puppy- but something in your chest unknots anyway. Sometimes, you feel like a puppy with how receptive you are to his praise. His lips find the hinge of your jaw, lingering long enough that you can feel the shape of his smile. "Knew you could do it, sweetheart."

The sheets rustle as he shifts behind you, his knee slotting more firmly between yours. The fabric is rough against your inner thigh, but the pressure is grounding- one more tether to keep you from floating away into the void of vertigo. His free hand cards through your curls, careful around the tangles, his fingers massaging your scalp with the same focused precision he uses to field-strip his sidearm. "There you go," he coos when your breathing finally evens out. His voice is thick with something you can’t name. "Just like that."

Somewhere in the haze, you register the click of the bedside lamp. The room plunges into darkness, but Leon’s hands remain, one curled around your wrist, the other still tangled in your hair. His breathing evens out against the back of your neck, slow and deep, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

Minutes- or maybe hours- later, you shift slightly, testing the waters. The dizziness has ebbed to a dull throb behind your eyes, but your limbs still feel like they’re made of lead. Leon’s arm tightens reflexively around your waist. “Stay,” he slurs sleepily into your skin, his voice rough with sleep. 

You swallow against the lump in your throat. His shirt is damp where your tears soaked through, clinging to your cheek. The scent of gun oil and cologne is stronger now, mingling with the salt on your lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, but your voice cracks on the last word.

After a surprisingly easy day in class, you decided to stop by a friend’s apartment for a while and get some work done together. Sure, you didn’t actually get much work done, but it was nice to have some company while you attempted your homework. Stepping out of their apartment complex, you hiked your bag a little further onto your shoulder before starting your walk to the bus station. Not even a minute down the road, a jeep stops at your side. After the initial thoughts of, “Oh God, I’m really about to get kidnapped,” your eyes flick to the driver’s seat.

“Leon! You scared me,” you laugh slightly.

“Hey, you headed home? I’ll give you a ride,” he smiles sweetly. The radio plays quietly, it’s some rock song; you can’t hear it too well over the hum of the engine. You climb up into the passenger seat, making a mumbled comment about how high the suspension is on his car.

“I didn’t catch that,” he says, still with that charming, friendly tone to his voice.

“Oh, just… thank you,” you say, putting your bag onto your lap and fumbling a bit with the strap of it. “What are you doing around here anyway, though. Kinda crazy running into you like this.” You smile, feeling your cheeks warm a bit with shyness.

“Returning something to a friend. He lives in the west building.”

“Oh, cool, I was just coming from my friend’s place in east.”

“How was class today?”

“Pretty easy, actually. That’s why I ended up here… how were yours?”

“Sort of boring. Mostly civil law stuff today. I’m glad I ran into you.” The last comment makes you glance over at him. His ears look a little red, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“You are?” you ask tentatively.

“Well, yeah. Would’ve been an all-around boring day if I hadn’t.” He chuckles. He really is a sweetheart, you think. You were a bit worried at first that he thought you were too weird or too nerdy. Most people from your high school probably thought like that—not that it really mattered, but it certainly didn’t feel great to be judged in that way. Leon never laughed at you, though. You weren’t friends then, but you were at peace with each other. If he saw you doodling on your notes, he’d say what you drew looked cool, or if he needed help with something in class, he didn’t make it seem like he hated having to ask you. In fact, it seemed like he enjoyed talking to you. You scold yourself for being impressed by the bare minimum, but then remember you’re just acquaintances. Maybe it’d be worth getting to know him.

“Still there?” he laughs, but there’s a nervous tinge to it. 

“Yes! You… you get bored without me?” It’s probably obvious how much you cringe at yourself for fumbling your words like that. It’s sort of a Freudian slip, though. You certainly wouldn’t mind if he said yes.

“I suppose you could say that. It feels a lot less lonely when we cross paths.”

“That’s… really sweet. You know, I’m just next door; you can always knock.”

“Well, I never want to invite myself over.”

“Well, I’m inviting you now.”

“Tonight?” He asks, surprised.

“If you want,” you shrug, “I’m not busy.”

As if on cue, he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment complex. He backs into a spot, and when his hand comes up to your headrest, you can’t help but realize you never got a good enough look at him before now. Sure, he’s always been cute and sweet, but from this angle (and probably a million others), he’s super hot. You try to ignore it as you clamber out of the car; he waits for you on the other side, and you walk up to the building together. He holds the door open for you with a “m’lady.” It makes you giggle,

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes.

“God forbid a guy practices chivalry these days.”

“You’re so corny. It’s ridiculous that you make those jokes with a face like that.”

“A face like what?” He has to be feigning ignorance. You feel a jolt of shyness course through you as you stumble to explain yourself,

“Well, you—y’know—you’re a good-looking guy. Or—well—you just don't look

like the type.” He laughs heartily at this, and it only makes your face grow redder.

“Well, thank you for noticing. You’re not too bad yourself.” He turns to you, face deep red, making deliberate eye contact, and, God, you just feel yourself melting. Thankfully, you’ve reached your door, and you have an excuse to avert your eyes, fumbling with your keys and clumsily turning the lock. You open the door and glance back at him; he gives you a ‘lead the way’ gesture, so you walk in and motion to the open space of your apartment.

“Welcome. I wasn’t expecting a guest, so it’s a little messy.”

“Nonsense. It’s cute in here.” cute. You laugh, 

“Thanks, I try.”

“My apartment’s not very well decorated. Just the essentials, really. It’s nice in here… Thanks for inviting me over.” He smiles, and you return it in earnest.

“Of course… do you want something to drink? I have water, orange juice…” You stare into the sad emptiness of your fridge, scrounging for something nice to offer him.

“A water would be great, thank you.” He reverts to cordiality now that he’s in your space, and he does seem notably shyer. You notice him wiping his palms on his pants nervously before shoving his hands in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them. You hand him a glass of water and lean over the counter, thinking of something to say. He takes a sip and begins,

“So, do you still do art?”

“Oh, yeah, sometimes. It’s hard to make time for it sometimes with school, though.”

“I always liked it when you shared your notes,” he chuckles to himself, looking down to hide the red of his cheeks, but you can see how red his ears are. 

“Your doodles were cute. I remember the one you did of our math teacher. I was impressed, it looked just like him.”

“Oh, yeah,” you laugh, a little shy at how much he remembers, “not the nicest portrait I’ve ever drawn…”

“You know what was, though? Those little doodles you used to draw of yourself, or cats.”

“Oh God, I was hoping you weren’t paying too much attention to those!” You groan, covering your face with one hand, trying to suppress your embarrassed smile.

“Why wouldn’t I? They were great. I looked forward to it every time I asked for your help.” He smiles in earnest, and it softens your embarrassment only a little bit. 

“It’s just, I dunno—everybody else would walk up and take a look at my drawings and be so… so patronizing. Like they didn’t think I could tell they were making fun of me in their head.”

“Well, I always thought you were cool.” He locks eyes with you quickly, his face the brightest red you’ve ever seen it, but so is yours. Silence settles between you comfortably. He takes a moment before breaking it.

“I always thought you were cool. Remember when I asked you about prom?”

“I said I wasn’t gonna go. That it was stupid.”

“Yeah, I… I was gonna ask you to go with me.” Your heart skips a beat. You’d always figured it was wishful thinking that Leon liked you back then. You figured he’d never be into someone like you. It was hard to think he could be, knowing he was always swarmed by the same people who treated talking to you like a chore.

“...really?”

“Really. I should’ve just asked you out somewhere else. I was just…scared.”

“Scared of what? Did you think I would’ve said no?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, avoiding eye contact a bit. The Leon you know has always been friendly, but he had an air of awkwardness about him sometimes, like he was nervous about something, but you never knew what. Now, it seems, you know why. 

“I would’ve said yes.”

“Well… would you say yes now?”

“To prom?”

“No, no, to a real date. With me.” He fiddles with his hands nervously.

“Yes.” You reply with no hesitation, and he looks up like he’s surprised. He tries to hide his smile, looking back down at the counter, but it’s so wide you can see the apples of his cheeks swell even with his hair covering them. He composes himself, a hand over his beaming smile, and says,

“I’ll take you out to a nice dinner.”

“Oh, really? Where?” You smile back, leaning towards him.

At 21 he’s gushing about the force, about how much he wants to help people and make change. His eyes are bright and he smiles easily, though you never fail to make him nervous. He can’t bring himself to ask you out no matter how much he wants to, so when all hell breaks loose he regrets it. He imagines you back home watching the news, knowing he’s in the thick of it and it breaks his heart. As if he’s the one who hurt you, rather than circumstance.

When Leon gets back, something in him is broken. You ask him about how he’s been sleeping and he shrugs it off, even though his dark circles have never been worse. He’s still your Leon, sweet and good-natured, but the scars he’s acquired will never fade.

Over the next few years, his experience and training pushes his feelings further and further down. With each person who dies, no matter how many people he saves, his resolve hardens. You’re able to see him every once in a while, and he cracks jokes and tries to pull focus from his grim job, but he’s different. Not just in strange ways, though. It’s hard to hide your blush when his biceps strain the seams of his t-shirts, or when his hand finds the small of your back. But he always goes, always has someone else to save.

At 27, Leon is more confident in his abilities than ever before. He moves with more power and conviction almost, and it certainly doesn’t help that massive crush you’ve developed on him over the years. Every time you express worry for a mission he tries to lighten the mood, but he knows you care about him too much for that to work. You hug him before he leaves to save Ashley, begging him to come back alive. You know he can’t promise that, but he does.

And he really does. He comes back and you hold him in your arms, finally. Leon doesn’t tell you the too-gory details, the things that would only bring you further distress. You see right through his sugar-coating though, and push him to be honest about it. He trusts you more than most but it’s agonizing, just the idea that he could be opening himself up to further pain. And it takes years, after you’ve slipped into a pattern of closeness that most friends don’t have.

Leon finally takes you on that first date. It happens after you’ve already kissed and (innocently) stayed over a few times, but he feels it’s the right way to do things. He’s a perfect gentleman, besides getting a stain on his shirt at the restaurant and having to recruit you in the family bathroom to help him get it out. After a few minutes of trying not to stare at him shirtless while you clean the stubborn spot, it’s clear you’re both done with dinner.

Your first time with him is so gentle, so soft and sweet. He mostly whispers to you, reassuring you at every moment and checking in. You fall asleep in his bed and he holds you close, always struggling to sleep since Raccoon City, but it’s not so bad with you there. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and closes his eyes, happy and content for the first time in a while.

After literal years of him taking only the bare minimum of time off, you convince him to go on vacation with you. He packs Hawaiian shirts and an awful pair of swim shorts he got years ago, practically giddy with excitement. His boyish charm shines through when you sit on lounge chairs by the water and he gives you a lazy grin. You read something fluffy while he naps under the sun, insisting he “doesn’t burn” after you tell him to wear sunscreen. When he wakes up, he sheepishly asks you to help him rub the lotion onto his pink-tinged skin.

Each day when you get back to the hotel room, he flops dramatically onto the bed and asks you to order room service. You remind him you ate only a couple hours ago, but you’re on vacation and he’s more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him so, of course, you give in. The two of you sit in bed eating pancakes for second dinner and watch American Idol, your head drifting to his shoulder while his arm keeps you close to his side.

That summer, you notice how his hair gets slightly bleached after weeks under the sun. His locks grow lighter and lighter through august, until he’s practically a natural blond. You realize it’s always been that way, you simply had never had the time with him to notice the shift. With his head in your lap, you weave a few flowers into a dainty braid of his hair, so it hangs down the side of his face. He laughs and thinks he looks ridiculous but kisses you anyway, warmth blooming in your chests in the company of one other.

You propose to him in bed one night just before falling asleep. You’ve been together for 8 years and just can’t help it anymore. Leon doesn’t hear you the first time and you laugh, then repeat yourself. He doesn’t even respond, just pulls your face to his and the kiss answers your question loud and clear. You wed in the spring with only a few friends and family present, and Leon is more nervous to see you than he has ever been for a life-threatening mission. It’s beautiful and quiet and so joyful, and the image of him at the alter is one you swear never to forget.

Marriage doesn’t fall into place immediately for you. His work hours are ridiculous, and having to pack up and leave at a moments notice is bound to put strain on any relationship. But you both build a life and love he never thought could be possible. He calls you on missions and gives you the most information he can, and when he gets home you’re there to help him recover.

One day, you ask him if he’d ever want to have kids. You’d been visiting family together and noticed how sweet and good he was with the little ones, so it put the thought in your head. It’s an emotional conversation, Leon doesn’t want another person, especially a child, to be in harms way because of his job. You’ve had scares before, phone calls and strange people following you around the store. He can’t bear the idea of all that happening while trying to raise a kid.

So instead, you get a dog. You make a date of going to the shelter and seeing the sweet pups, and one catches your eye. She’s a pit bull terrier, incredibly smart, and Leon takes up the mantle of training her. At night, the two of you often sit on the couch with the dog sprawled between you, belly up and happily accepting scratches and pats. She’s Leon’s baby, though he wouldn’t admit it. He even lets her sleep in the bed sometimes, after explaining that “it won’t be a long-term thing, okay? She needs her own space and boundaries are important, but one time won’t hurt.” After a couple years of this, she sleeps in your bed every night, snuggled up against him.

When Leon comes back from a particularly secretive mission, you know something’s wrong immediately. His posture is worse than usual, which is saying something, and he won’t disclose much about what happened. When the black veins appear on his neck though, he finally relents. T-virus, progressing to stage 3. Sherry has it too he says, head in his hands. You tell him there must be a cure, and that if anyone can find it, he can. But nothing you say truly changes the mentality of a dead-man-walking he’s adopted.

At 49, Leon leaves for his mission with a newfound vigor you haven’t seen in months. He tells you not to worry per usual, but kisses you goodbye longer than ever before.

It’s agony waiting for him. No calls, no texts, he must be in-action 24/7, you think. But when he’s back on the doorstep, you gently hug him and are surprised to find strong arms holding you back. You stand there in the doorway and cup his face, brushing a few tears from his cheeks. He so rarely cries and has only done so in your company, sometimes to cheesy romcoms or dog movies.

Kiyoomi was familiar with this feeling, which he at least believed he could control very well since it had been an unwelcome companion for years. But now, after everything that had happened and how things had changed so drastically in just a few hours, he wasn’t entirely sure he could contain this fucking jealousy. 

But he had to. He had no right to feel this way, not after he had ruined any chance himself. 

Kiyoomi sighed and took a long sip of his bitter drink, without having any satisfying effect. 

Maybe this was what it would feel like. Maybe the image in front of him—your body moving easily with someone else’s, your laugh brushing the air, his hand resting where his should’ve been—was just a preview of the future he’d condemned himself to. To sit alone, watching someone else do everything he was too scared to.

The truth was, he’d regretted calling it a mistake from the moment the words left his mouth. He’d thought it was the right thing, the safe thing, the only thing he was allowed to say. But now, with his chest tightening at the sight of you just dancing with someone else, he wasn’t so sure. Was it too late to take it back? Will Gin be okay with this?

As if he had summoned him with his thoughts, Gin appeared beside him, taking a seat with his gaze also directed toward the dance floor.

“Hey, how is it going? You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kiyoomi said, smiling sideways and distracting himself by taking another sip of his drink before continuing, “I’m fine, how about you? How’s married life?”

“It feels good, but don’t change the subject.” 

“I’m fine. I’m just sleepy.” He insisted, hoping Gin will just believe him.  

“That’s why you’re watching my sister’s dance partner as if he murdered your entire family?”

Kiyoomi’s stomach flipped.

Fuck. He knew he was being obvious, but not that obvious. A nervous laugh escaped him. “Dude, I’m not—”

“You’re not? So, what’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” 

“Kiyoomi, do you have something to tell me?” 

Those words were enough to make the world stop for a second for Kiyoomi. Damn, he was about to throw up his drink.

“I don—”

“Don’t lie to me, man.” Gin cut in. “We’ve known each other too long for that.”

Silence stretched between them. Kiyoomi stared down at his drink, debating with himself. Every muscle in his body was tense.

He was tired. Terribly tired of all this. Of hiding it for so many years, hoping those feelings would disappear, when in fact the opposite had happened. He was tired of lying to his best friend, to you, and to himself.

Perhaps it was time to let go of this heavy burden he had been carrying for so long.

After a heavy sigh and looking up at where you were talking with a smile to that guy, he muttered, “I think— I think I have a thing for your sister.”

He said it. He finally said it, and it was like tossing a coin.

The words lingered in the air, heavier than he had ever imagined, and for a terrifying moment Kiyoomi thought he might actually choke on the silence that followed. His pulse hammered in his ears, each beat louder than the music thundering through the ballroom. He’d kept this buried for so long—hidden behind excuses and denial—and now that it was out, there was no taking it back. His hands curled into fists beneath the table, bracing himself for Gin’s disappointment. 

But instead, he got a laugh—short, almost incredulous. For a split second, Kiyoomi wondered if he had misheard, if his mind had conjured it to save him from the blow he was bracing for. But no, the amusement on Gin’s face was real.

“A thing? Kiyo, you’re head over heels for her. Don’t insult both of us by pretending this is just a silly crush.”

Kiyoomi froze, the words hitting harder than he could’ve braced for. Shock jolted through him so suddenly it was almost dizzying. Gin knew? He knew? His mouth went dry, the words landed like a punch to the gut, knocking the air right out of him.

Embarrassment crawled hot across his skin, because the way Gin said it—made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. 

And maybe it was. Maybe all those years he thought he’d been careful, and he hadn’t been hiding his feelings that well at all. Maybe every glance, every hesitation, every moment he’d faltered around you had betrayed him more than he realized. The thought made his stomach twist and heat crept up the back of his neck, mortifying in its intensity, and for the first time in a long time, Kiyoomi had no idea what to say.

Gin laughed louder when he noticed that Kiyoomi had, indeed, blushed. “Dude. You’ve been making heart eyes at her since college.”

Kiyoomi grounded as he buried his face in his hands. “I have not.”

“You absolutely have. It’s honestly impressive how bad you both are at hiding it.” Gin shot back, still grinning. Then, leaning back, he added with a shrug, “I thought you two would figure it out eventually, so I stayed out of it.”

That surprised him enough to lift his head and look at his best friend to the face. “What?”

“Yeah. I didn’t say anything because I figured if something was gonna happen, it should be on your terms. I trust you. I trust her. So I let it play out.” Gin scratched the back of his neck, “But then I overheard you guys in the hallway, and I realized maybe by staying out of it, I did more harm than good.”

His tone shifted, lighter, almost comical as he lifted a finger. “At first I was like, maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve pushed you earlier, asked questions, done the whole overprotective brother routine like if you hurt her i’ll kill you or some shit like that.”

Kiyoomi’s brows knit, but Gin was already shaking his head.

“But then I was like, nah, this is Omi’s fault. Because if you had just manned up and said something, you would’ve found out a long time ago that if my lil’ sis is gonna date anyone, you’re literally the only man on earth I’d ever think is good enough for her.”

Kiyoomi blinked, floored, but Gin wasn’t finished. He leaned forward now, his voice softer. “But then I thought about it more. And I talked to Yuna. And she said something that was true, annoyingly true—this is both our fault. Because if either of us had just talked before, maybe none of this would’ve turned into such a mess.”

The words landed heavier than Gin probably intended, and Kiyoomi’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, guilt pressing on his ribs.

“I’m sorry, man.”

Gin exhaled slowly, giving a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the noise of the party dulling into the background. Then Gin tilted his head, studying him with curiosity.

“So tell me… what was that mistake you two were talking about in the bathroom? The one I overheard?”

Kiyoomi’s gaze dropped instantly, the rim of his glass suddenly fascinating. His throat felt sand-dry. Well, the truth had already come out, so he no longer saw any point in lying to Gin, so he said quietly, “I almost kissed her today.”

Gin didn’t so much as flinch. “And why did you tell her it was a mistake?”

Kiyoomi exhaled through his nose, slow and heavy, like he was trying to push the weight off his chest. “Because I panicked. I didn’t want to risk this our friendship. I thought maybe if I shut it down, it would just go away.”

 “And did it?”

Kiyoomi let out a bitter laugh that had no humor in it, dragging a hand through his hair. “Not even close.”

The confession sat between them, sharp as glass. He closed his eyes, and guilt carved through him again, same as it had every time he replayed the moment. “I didn’t want to hurt her.” He muttered, almost to himself. “I was trying to do the right thing, and now I fucked everything up.” 

“I know. And you’ve always been the guy who does the right thing, even when it costs you.” Gin said after a beat, his tone softer. “But we’re not kids anymore. She’s not just my little sister. She’s a grown woman who knows what she wants. And you—” His smile tilted, almost fond. “You’re a good man, Kiyoomi. You wouldn’t be sitting here tearing yourself apart if you weren’t.” Gin took a zip from his drink before continuing, “And maybe you fucked up, but I know my sister and I know she’s going to forgive you. Because she’s just as gone for you as you are for her.”

Silence stretched. Not empty, but thick. 

Gin leaned back in his chair, smirking now, and nudged his shoulder. “So… in your words, because I remember them very clearly from a few years ago, when I almost blew it with Yuna—”

Kiyoomi’s head snapped toward him.

“Stop being a little bitch and go for her.”

He blinked, dumbstruck, as Gin leaned back with a laugh. “You gave me that exact advice, remember? So I’m just doing what good friends do. Throwing your own words back in your face.”

Kiyoomi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His gaze drifted past Gin, back to the dance floor.

And there you were.

The lights above caught in your hair, laughter spilling so effortlessly from your lips. You didn’t belong in the background of anyone’s life, you drew every pair of eyes without even trying. And yet, for all the people in the room, he knew none of them saw you the way he did.

For a moment, the guilt, the fear, the excuses—everything—just fell away. All that was left was the simple truth: he wanted you. He always had.

His throat tightened as his hands curled against his knees, a storm of nerves and longing rushing through him.

Gin’s voice cut through, sharp but not unkind. “What are you waiting for? Go.”

Kiyoomi’s throat worked around a dry swallow. “Like right now?”

“Right now.”

Kiyoomi hesitated, pulse hammering. He wasn’t used to feeling this unsteady, this raw. But maybe Gin was right. Maybe this was the moment where he either stayed safe and silent—or finally stepped into the terrifying unknown.

His chair scraped softly against the floor as he rose, every muscle taut, every nerve alight.

Gin lifted his glass in salute, smirking. “Just remember—you hurt her, I kill you. Got it?”

“Got it.” He said with a smile before heading to the dance floor.

+ note: finally this man had some BALLS. btw— i know the story is pretty light, but i just wanted to write something cute :(

you were a rising star in the acting industry, already building an impressive fanbase and stacking up offers—films, guestings, endorsements, you name it.

and you first met hinata shoyo during one of your guest appearances on a late-night talk show.

you knew his name—honestly, who didn’t?

a household figure in the world of volleyball, the fiery msby black jackals ace who went on to represent japan in the olympics.

he walked onto the set with that sun-bright smile, hair still slightly damp from some earlier shoot, and energy so loud it practically announced him before the host did.

you told yourself to keep it professional. he was just another guest. just another athlete doing press.

but then he sat beside you.

and leaned in.

and said, “you’re even prettier off-screen.”

like it wasn’t being recorded. like he hadn’t just derailed your entire ability to speak with one sentence, delivered so casually it almost didn’t register—until it absolutely did.

you were a professional. you were media-trained, polished, always quick with a clever reply or a charming laugh. compliments were nothing new. you heard them constantly—from directors, co-stars, hosts trying to flatter their guests. they rolled off your shoulders like wardrobe lint.

so why was hinata shoyo different?

maybe it was the way he said it, not with the usual sleazy undertone or that overconfident smugness some actors wore like cologne. no, his words were honest. teasing, sure. a little cheeky. but his eyes held nothing but admiration—like he meant it. like he’d thought it before and just didn’t bother stopping himself from saying it out loud.

and of course, you were a blushing mess.

you laughed, tried to shake it off, but your voice cracked a little when you spoke next. you avoided eye contact. your fingers tightened ever so slightly around your water bottle. and everyone noticed. the internet noticed. clips of the moment hit social media before the segment was even over.

and just when you thought you’d regained composure, the host turned to hinata with a follow-up question—something harmless about training schedules and balancing fame.

he blinked, lips parted, then smiled sheepishly before leaning into his mic and saying:

“i’m sorry, can you repeat that? i got distracted by the beauty beside me.”

you nearly choked.

the audience exploded.

your heart dropped straight into your stomach, bounced off your dignity, and kept going.

the host lost it, practically doubled over in laughter. your co-guest looked between the two of you like they were witnessing the birth of a scandal in real time. someone backstage dropped something loud.

and you? you froze. laughed. covered your face with your hands for a second before daring to look at him.

he just grinned, bright and unbothered, legs bouncing slightly like he hadn’t just shattered your entire professional facade on national television.

and in that moment—caught between the studio lights, the screaming crowd, and the burning heat crawling up your neck—you realized two things.

one: hinata shoyo was dangerously charming.

and two: you were absolutely, completely screwed.

the internet ate it up, of course.

within minutes of the episode airing, your name and his were trending side by side. edits popped up like mushrooms after rain—slow-mo replays of the moment he called you beautiful, zoom-ins of your flustered face, fan-made fancams with captions like “get yourself someone who looks at you the way hinata looks at her.”

the comment sections were feral.

“i don’t know what PR is cooking but it ain’t better than THIS.” “forget that boring actor, have you seen her smile around hinata??” “they look like a romcom waiting to happen.” “chemistry? that wasn’t chemistry, that was a collision.”

people weren’t just shipping you with hinata—they were invested. comparing photos of you beside the actor your agency was trying to push versus you beside hinata. and the verdict? unanimous.

you and hinata looked better. laughed harder. felt more real.

you scrolled through it all in the backseat of your car on the way home from the taping, trying not to smile, trying very hard not to double-tap anything.

the tweets were unhinged. the fancams were already being set to romantic bgm. and someone had somehow managed to find a frame-by-frame analysis of the exact moment you broke into a flustered smile, claiming it was “the visual representation of falling in love.”

you were about to laugh—really laugh—when your manager’s voice cut through the buzzing high of your phone screen.

"as much as possible, refrain from interacting with hinata," they said without even looking at you. their tone was clipped, scrolling through their own tablet in the passenger seat. "his image isn't what we want linked to you. the actor is much more… fitting. marketable."

you blinked.

“marketable.” like you were a product on a shelf. like genuine chemistry could be replaced with staged photo ops and forced smiles.

you didn’t reply. just locked your phone and leaned your head against the window, city lights flickering past like strobe flashes.

but even then, behind your closed eyelids, you saw his grin. heard the way he’d said “the beauty beside me” like it wasn’t a joke—like he meant it.

it replayed in your head like a scene from a movie you weren’t ready to let go of.

and fate, apparently, was a hopeless romantic.

because a few days after the interview—after your manager’s firm insistence that any interaction with hinata shoyo was off the table, sealed, buried, and locked away—you ran into him.

completely unplanned. totally unscripted. at a small café tucked into a quiet street, the kind of place where no one cared about fame and your name wasn’t flashing on a marquee.

you were in disguise. hood up, oversized sunglasses on, one of your dad’s old college hoodies pulled over your head like it was a cloak of invisibility. you just wanted coffee and a quiet corner.

what you got instead was hinata shoyo—seated two tables away, halfway through a matcha latte and scrolling through his phone like he had no idea the universe had just handed him a plot twist.

you froze.

he didn’t.

he looked up once. blinked. tilted his head. then smiled.

of course.

he got up casually, walked over like this was the most normal thing in the world, and slid into the seat across from you before you could even decide whether to run or pretend you were someone else entirely.

"seems like fate is on our side, huh?"

his voice was just as warm as you remembered it—easy, teasing, like this was some private joke between the two of you.

you blinked at him from behind your oversized sunglasses, mouth parting in disbelief. “you’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t exactly his fault fate had terrible timing and a flair for drama.

"funny," he said, leaning in just a little, chin in his palm, "i was about to say the same thing about you."

his eyes flicked to your hoodie, to the sunglasses, to the way you were hunched low in your seat like you were avoiding paparazzi in a spy thriller.

"and yet... here you are. incognito and all."

you gave him a look, deadpan. “i’m serious. if someone sees us—”

"then they’ll see two people enjoying coffee." he shrugged, like it really was that simple. "and maybe they'll think, ‘wow, that guy’s lucky to be sitting with someone that pretty.’”

you choked on your sip of coffee.

he smiled like he knew he got you again. like he wanted to.

and just like the night of the interview, the cameras may not have been rolling this time— but your heart was.

recording every second. every grin. every word that made you forget why this was supposed to be a bad idea.

you didn’t even realize how long the two of you had been sitting there in that little corner café, tucked behind dark shades and baseball caps, fingers curled around warm mugs and stolen glances. the outside world blurred, your responsibilities momentarily quiet. it should’ve been a quick encounter—one polite hello, maybe a laugh or two before going your separate ways.

but hinata had a way of anchoring you to the moment. like gravity in the shape of a boy with a foxlike grin and eyes that sparkled when he teased.

he’d slid into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, one arm slung over the backrest, the other bringing his drink to his lips. his orange hair was slightly damp, messy from what you could only assume was post-training sweat. and speaking of training—

you hadn’t meant to notice it at first. but it was hard not to.

his compression shirt hugged his torso like it was custom-made, drawing attention to the lean muscle of his shoulders, the defined curve of his biceps. he’d thrown on a hoodie, sure, but left it unzipped—like he knew exactly what he was doing. like he wanted you to look.

and god, you were trying so hard not to.

your eyes flicked up to meet his, only to find him already staring.

his grin widened.

“you okay there?” he asked, feigning innocence, tilting his head slightly. “you’ve been staring at my chest for a while now.”

you nearly choked on your coffee.

“i wasn’t—!” you started, cheeks going hot. too hot. your voice cracked halfway through the denial. “i wasn’t staring.”

he raised a brow, leaning forward just a little—elbows on the table, smug written all over his face.

“uh huh.” he glanced down at himself, then back up at you with mock curiosity. “must be something really interesting down here then.”

you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“it’s just a shirt,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

“it’s a compression shirt,” he corrected, voice low and teasing, like he was thoroughly enjoying your slow descent into flustered oblivion. “made for performance. enhances blood flow. shows muscle definition…”

he smirked.

“…clearly working, huh?”

you hated how good he was at this. how effortless he made it seem. and yet, there was nothing cruel about it—nothing that felt mean-spirited. it was light, playful. flirty. but never below the belt.

still, your hands curled tighter around your mug as you fought the urge to smile.

“you’re impossible,” you muttered.

“and you’re adorable when you’re embarrassed,” he replied without missing a beat.

you rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed you. no matter how much you tried to play it cool, hinata had this uncanny ability to slip right under your defenses—like it was second nature to him. his teasing wasn’t just harmless fun; it felt personal. intentional. like he wanted to see the way your guard cracked every time he looked at you like that.

he took another slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving yours, then leaned in slightly—chin propped on his hand, gaze too amused for your comfort.

"i’ve been meaning to ask for your number last time,” he said, voice a touch quieter now, more intimate. “but you were whisked away like cinderella at midnight.”

you huffed a laugh, setting your mug down. “i think cinderella at least got to say goodbye. i was practically shoved into the car by my manager like i’d committed a crime.”

“well,” he shrugged with a playful glint in his eye, “you did commit one.”

you raised an eyebrow. “oh? do tell.”

he leaned in just a little closer, enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, fresh, a little woodsy. unfairly distracting.

“you stole my attention,” he said, lips twitching into a grin. “and didn’t even leave a shoe behind.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. how did he say things like that without flinching? without even a hint of hesitation? like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you’re really going all in on the charm today, huh?”

he chuckled. “what can i say? i’ve got limited time. might as well make it count.”

and then, as if he hadn’t already knocked the wind out of you once, he added—softly, but without a trace of sarcasm,

"are you and that actor really a thing?"

you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. it wasn’t accusatory or bitter—just curious. tentative. honest.

"no," you said, the word escaping with a sigh, your fingers absently circling the rim of your coffee cup. "pr stunt. apparently, for more exposure. buzz, clicks, articles—whatever keeps the spotlight burning."

you didn’t know why you felt the need to explain, but the moment you did, you felt lighter. like saying it out loud made it real—that you weren’t actually tied to someone else, that there was space for something else. someone else.

hinata leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable for a moment, eyes flickering down to his cup like he was turning something over in his head. and then—

"so you're saying there's a chance?" he asked, lips twitching into a grin that had no right being as endearing as it was.

you laughed, shaking your head, but you couldn’t hide the way your mouth curved, the way warmth bloomed somewhere deep in your chest again—persistent and impossible to ignore.

"you’re ridiculous," you muttered.

"but charming, right?"

your gaze flicked to his. he was relaxed in the chair, one arm casually slung over the backrest, still wearing that too-tight compression shirt that you swore he knew was unfair. it clung to him in all the right places, stretching across his chest and shoulders with an ease that made it impossible not to glance—more than once.

he caught you doing it again, of course.

"you keep looking at me like that," he teased, tilting his head, "and i’m gonna think you’re into me or something."

"maybe i’m just admiring the poor fabric trying its best to survive."

he laughed—loud and boyish and unguarded—and for a second, it made the world feel simple. like there were no managers waiting outside, no headlines looming, no risk in sitting here with him.

"next time, i’ll wear something looser," he said, still grinning.

"don’t."

the word slipped out before you could stop it, and it hung in the air between you—bold and shameless.

his eyebrows shot up. "oh?"

you cleared your throat, reaching for your drink to hide your flustered smile. "i mean... wear whatever. i don’t care."

but you did. and he knew.

and when he smiled again, this time it was softer. knowing. as if he was silently agreeing: yeah, this was definitely not a bad idea.

you shifted in your seat, heart beating far too fast for a casual café meetup, and fished your phone out of your coat pocket. with a playful raise of your brow, you slid it across the table to him.

"here—before my fairy grandmother calls and turns the carriage back into a press van."

he laughed, a real one, eyes crinkling with amusement. "so you are cinderella."

"more like cinderella with a publicist and a fake relationship contract."

"even better," he said, already tapping in his number, the screen lighting up in his hands. "means i still get to be the guy chasing you down with a glass slipper."

"or a phone number," you muttered, trying not to smile too obviously as you watched his fingers fly across the screen.

"both," he said, handing your phone back. "except i won't lose you this time."

and somehow, despite the noise of the café, despite the chaos of everything that had led to this moment, that sentence landed like a promise. it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to name. not yet.

he stood then, stretching a little, and your eyes betrayed you once again—flickering briefly to the way the fabric of his compression shirt moved with him. he caught it. again.

"really should’ve worn something looser," he said with a smirk, voice just low enough to make your face heat.

"you’re impossible."

"but charming, right?" he repeated, grinning as he grabbed his drink.

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the warmth blooming under your skin as he added, just before heading to the counter to grab a napkin,

"text me when you get home. and don’t disappear this time, cinderella."

he was halfway across the café before you realized—you were already reaching for your phone. already saving his contact. already typing something with a smile you couldn’t hide anymore.

it didn’t stop there.

one secret meetup turned into two. then three. then so many that you stopped counting.

you were both careful—god, you were careful. hoodies pulled low, caps shadowing your eyes, oversized sunglasses that made you look like you stepped out of a badly disguised spy movie. it should’ve felt ridiculous. sometimes it did.

but then hinata would catch sight of you from across the court—eyes lighting up mid-warm-up, a split second longer than necessary before he returned to his team—and suddenly, it was all worth it.

you’d sit high up in the stands, blending in with the crowd. pretending not to care. pretending like your chest didn’t swell every time he made a point, like you weren’t dying to run to him when his name echoed through the stadium.

after games, sometimes he’d find a way to slip away. duck behind staff exits, or fake a phone call just long enough to sneak into the backseat of a tinted car, breathless and grinning.

“you came again?” he’d whisper, like it was still unbelievable. like your presence wasn’t the thing that kept him going through grueling practice runs and double overtime.

“wouldn’t miss it,” you’d murmur back, brushing a strand of hair out of your face before it got caught in his jacket when he leaned in.

on off days, you’d meet at quieter places—a ramen shop near the river where no one paid attention, or a convenience store at 11 p.m. with instant noodles and laughter echoing off vending machines.

you learned that he trained too hard and slept too little. that his days blurred into morning drills and late-night strategy reviews, protein shakes and aching joints. he never complained, but sometimes—just sometimes—he’d let his voice soften during your calls, the exhaustion slipping through like cracks in glass. and you’d listen, quietly, offering nothing but your presence and the occasional: “you’ve done enough today, shoyo.”

he learned you hated the fake PR relationship. that you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt whenever your team sent over a new headline pairing you with that actor. the one who barely knew anything about you. who didn’t know your favorite song, or how you hated the cold, or that you could never finish a drink without biting the straw until it was bent out of shape. hinata did. he noticed everything, quietly.

he wasn’t the jealous type, not really. not in the possessive way that made people petty or loud. but on nights when you called him after a red carpet event or a staged dinner with your so-called co-star, he’d scoff.

lightly. like it was nothing.

“looked cozy with him tonight,” he’d say, clearly not meaning it. but also clearly meaning something.

you’d roll your eyes. “we were both acting. that’s the point.”

“yeah, well,” he'd mutter, “maybe i should start showing up to premieres in a suit and pretend to be your bodyguard or something. see how he likes that.”

it made you laugh. always did. because hinata didn’t know how to be jealous in the normal way. he didn’t brood or sulk. he just... got quiet. thoughtful. like maybe he was wondering if the world would ever let you be his for real.

but he never asked you to stop. never made you choose. he just waited—trusting, steady—like someone who believed that whatever you were building together could survive the noise.

and every time you heard that soft scoff or the way he’d shift his voice, just a little sharper, a little less sunny, you wanted to say: it’s not real. he’s not you. he’ll never be you.

but instead you’d promise, “soon,” because that’s all you could offer in the quiet, secret space you and hinata had carved between the cameras. and for now, it was enough.

what surprised you most—though maybe it shouldn’t have—was that hinata wasn’t just patient. he was your biggest fan.

he made it his personal mission to collect every magazine cover you were on, even if it meant ducking into convenience stores in full hoodie-disguise, mask on, hoping no one would recognize japan’s star volleyball player clutching three copies of elle like they were limited edition.

he’d send you pictures, too—half blurry, always with a dumb grin on his face.

“guess who’s on aisle three again?” he’d text, along with a photo of your face next to some shampoo ad, and “i told the cashier i knew you. she didn’t believe me.”

he made a point to stop and stare (dramatically) at every billboard you were on, whether it was in shibuya crossing or a random subway station. once, he even asked a stranger to take a photo of him standing beneath one. arms crossed. chin tilted up.

you could see the pride in his smile, even through the screen.

“should’ve signed it for me,” he’d tease, and you could only laugh, cheeks warm with something heavier than affection—something that felt dangerously like love.

he didn’t treat your career like it was something intimidating or separate from him. he treated it like something to cheer for. something to be proud of. and in those moments, between your exhaustion and his training, you realized that hinata didn’t just see the version of you the world wanted—he saw all of you. and still, he stayed.

still, he smiled.

still, he bought every single magazine.

every cover you landed on, every spread you graced—hinata had it tucked somewhere in his apartment. he never made a big deal about it, but you’d catch glimpses: one stacked beside his bed, another on the coffee table, a few more carefully placed on a shelf like trophies he didn’t win but still celebrated.

your shared off-days were quiet rebellions against the lives you both led in public. no disguises, no handlers, no staged smiles. just dim lighting, takeout containers, and the kind of peace that only came when the world wasn’t watching.

his place was your favorite hideout. not because it was spacious (it wasn’t), or particularly tidy (it definitely wasn’t), but because it smelled like him—fabric softener and worn-in cotton and just a hint of sweat from training. real. grounding.

you’d spend hours doing absolutely nothing. tangled in his sheets or curled on his couch, limbs overlapping like it was second nature. his arm slung over your waist. your fingers tracing absentminded patterns across the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. breathing in sync, like you’d practiced this rhythm your whole life.

sometimes, the kisses started lazy. playful. you straddling him without meaning to, a knee on either side of his hips while you teased him about something he said, your face hovering just close enough to make him chase it. his hands would find your thighs like muscle memory, pulling you down gently until your bodies met in full.

and then it would shift—slow lips becoming deeper, hungrier. like every second spent apart had built up behind a dam now cracking under the weight of want. you kissed like you were trying to memorize each other all over again, mouths moving in sync, breaths coming faster, more uneven.

your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. his palms, warm and sure, pressed into the curve of your spine, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned, chest to chest, like puzzle pieces that just fit.

his hands slid beneath the oversized hoodie you were wearing—his, of course. they moved with purpose, calloused fingertips skimming over your bare skin, teasing the soft dip of your waist before finding the swell of your breast. he cupped you gently at first, thumbs brushing just enough to draw a breathy gasp from your lips.

the sound made him smirk into the kiss, all boyish mischief and quiet satisfaction, like he was proud of himself for getting that kind of reaction from you.

“so sensitive,” he murmured against your mouth, the words a soft tease, but his tone reverent—like he was discovering something precious and trying to take his time with it.

your hips shifted instinctively, grinding down into his lap, and he let out a low, shaky breath—eyes fluttering shut as if your weight alone could undo him. his hands tightened on your waist, holding you there like he never wanted you to move. like he wanted to feel every shiver of your body right against his.

the kiss deepened again, slower this time, but still just as urgent. it was the kind of kiss that made time blur, that made your stomach flutter and your fingers twitch with the need to feel more. you could feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of clothing between you, his breath coming faster whenever you shifted just right.

his hoodie—oversized on you—was pushed up halfway by his touch, and when his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts again, you arched into him with a soft, broken sound that had him smiling into the kiss.

“you’re trouble,” he whispered, voice roughened by want, his lips ghosting along your jaw, down your neck, where he lingered just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. “you know that?”

you mumbled something in response, too breathless to be coherent, threading your fingers through his hair again and tugging lightly—because you knew how much he liked that. and he did, a quiet groan escaping him as he pulled you closer, letting you feel just how hard it was for him to stay patient.

but you two never let it go too far. not all the way. there was a kind of tenderness in your restraint—a quiet agreement between the two of you. this wasn’t just about need. it was about trust, about the slow, magnetic pull between two people who wanted everything but weren’t in a rush to take it all at once.

still, there were moments—lazy, drawn-out nights in his apartment or yours—where your hands would wander a little more boldly. where the kisses would trail lower. where you’d end up tangled in his sheets, soft moans filling the dim light between mouthfuls of laughter and whispered promises.

and sometimes, when the tension built too high and the ache was too much to ignore, he’d take his time with you—slow, unhurried, and focused like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. and maybe in those moments, you were.

you’d sink into the couch, already breathless just from the look he gave you. and he’d kneel between your thighs, hands steady and eyes locked to yours as if asking, again, silently, for permission. and when you nodded, or whispered his name, it was like flipping a switch.

because hinata could eat like a man starved.

his mouth was reverent, like he was worshiping more than just your body. he listened to every gasp, every soft cry, adjusting his pace, his pressure, until you were arching against his tongue, one hand gripping his hair, the other over your mouth to muffle the kind of sounds the neighbors definitely didn’t need to hear.

and when he finally pulled back, lips slick and eyes heavy-lidded with pride and affection, he’d always kiss your thigh, rest his cheek against it like it was the most natural thing in the world. and you'd laugh, breathless and dazed, brushing your fingers through his hair like you couldn’t quite believe how lucky you were.

those nights weren’t about release. they were about intimacy. trust. knowing someone would learn every part of you without rushing to take all of you.

and in that slow burn, in that secret, sacred space you shared—it always felt like enough.

but maybe the tension had already reached its peak the night you went to watch one of his games, still hidden beneath a hoodie and cap, tucked into the farthest seat you could find. you weren’t supposed to be there. no one knew. but you had to see him—not through a screen or a photo or someone else’s words. you needed to watch him move. to feel that electric pull in real time.

and something inside you always shifted whenever he played.

it wasn’t just the way he moved—though that was part of it. it was the way he pushed his body past its limits, the way his jaw set with determination, the way he called for the ball like he knew the whole court belonged to him. and yes, maybe the way his arms flexed after a spike or how his shirt clung to his back didn’t help the ache low in your stomach.

you were so wound up from watching him that when your phone buzzed, and it was his name lighting up the screen—“come to my room?”—you didn’t even hesitate.

you were already halfway there when you texted back, “on my way.”

his hotel room door opened just as you were about to knock, like he’d been standing there waiting. his hair was still damp from the post-game shower, and he was dressed in just a loose shirt and sweats—but his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“you came,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

“you called,” you replied simply, stepping inside, heart pounding, heat still coiled tight in your chest from watching him earlier.

the moment the door shut behind you, it was like the space between you snapped. he didn’t waste time with small talk—just reached for you, tugged you forward, and kissed you like he needed it as badly as you did.

and you kissed him back like you’d been holding it in all night.

your back hit the wall before you even realized he was walking you there—his hands gripping your waist, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it could anchor you through the rush of it all. his lips never left yours, moving with a hunger that had been simmering under the surface for far too long.

he kissed like he was trying to make up for every second you’d spent apart. like the crowd, the court, the noise—all of it faded the second you walked through that door.

his body pressed flush against yours, one knee sliding between your legs, widening your stance. and then his hands—hot and sure—moved under the hem of your hoodie, finding bare skin and dragging a gasp from your throat.

you moaned into his mouth, and he smiled against your lips, a low sound of satisfaction rumbling from his chest.

“missed you,” he breathed between kisses, and you could barely answer, too busy chasing the next touch, the next kiss, the next place his hands would go.

he pressed you harder into the wall like he couldn’t stand the distance between your bodies—not even an inch. not now.

not after tonight.

"baby, tell me you want this. i don't think i can hold back anymore," he said, voice low and frayed at the edges, each word pressed into your skin like a confession.

his mouth trailed down to your neck—slow, deliberate—until he found that spot, the one he knew too well. the one that always made you shiver, no matter how many times he found it.

he lingered there, lips brushing over it once, then again, just to feel the way your body reacted, the way your breath caught, the way your hands clutched tighter at his shoulders.

“right here, huh?” he murmured against your skin, the smile in his voice unmistakable. he sucked, just a little—just enough to make your knees wobble and your head fall back against the wall with a soft whimper.

you weren’t sure what gave you away first: the way your hips tilted toward him like gravity had shifted, or the way your hands were already under his shirt, dragging it up, desperate for more skin.

“yes, shoyo. please,” you moaned—soft, breathy, and unguarded.

his breath hitched at the sound, like it struck something deep inside him. your voice—like that—was a kind of possession. one no crowd, no camera, no spotlight could ever compete with. it was his, and his alone.

“you have no idea what that does to me,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours for a second, as if grounding himself. and then his lips were back on yours—slower this time, but deeper. every kiss full of something he didn’t always know how to say out loud.

his hands were on the hem of your shirt, pausing, eyes flicking up to meet yours—checking, asking without a word. you gave him a nod, barely more than a breath, but it was all he needed.

in one fluid motion, your shirt was peeled away, tossed to the floor without a second thought. his hands were reverent—warm, calloused from endless hours of practice, but gentle as they skimmed over the bare skin now exposed to him.

your pants followed shortly after, unbuttoned with trembling fingers and slipped down your legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. they were flung carelessly across the room, a forgotten casualty in the urgency that pulsed between you.

“god, you’re…” his voice trailed off as his gaze dragged over every inch of you. there was awe there. hunger, too—but not the kind that rushed. this was slower. deeper. like he wanted to savor you.

he leaned in again, pressing kisses from your collarbone to your sternum, then lower, each one leaving a trail of warmth and intent. “been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the stadium,” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just above your bra. “you drive me insane, you know that?”

you let out a small squeak when hinata suddenly lifted you with ease, strong hands gripping the underside of your thighs, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. his mouth was back on yours before your back even hit the mattress—hot, urgent, tasting of everything you’d both held back until now.

his weight hovered just enough not to crush you, but you could feel every inch of him, feel the way his restraint was fraying with every second.

your hands found his shoulders, dragging down the smooth, toned lines of his back as you gasped against his lips, “shōyō… take off your shirt too.”

he pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. “yeah?” he teased, voice low, fingers already reaching for the hem of his shirt. “been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

you only bit your lip in response, watching with wide, hungry eyes as he peeled it off in one motion—revealing the full view of his sculpted chest, the lines of muscle carved from years of training, the light sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin.

“this what had you distracted the whole match?” he said, leaning closer, his nose brushing yours, that teasing grin back on his face. “because i saw you. front row. couldn’t even look away when i stretched, huh?”

you hated how right he was.

and he knew it—especially when your hands slid down his chest like you were confirming every part of it was real.

his lips found your neck again, mouth warm and relentless as he left a trail of small, possessive love bites. each one pressed into the sensitive skin with just enough pressure to make you whimper, to make you shift beneath him. you knew they’d darken into purple and red by morning—badges of something secret, something sacred—and the thought made your breath hitch.

his hands slid around your back with practiced ease, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and undoing it in one smooth motion. you barely registered the sound of it being flung somewhere behind you, too focused on the way his eyes dropped, hungry and reverent all at once.

the chill of the hotel room kissed your skin, and your nipples perked up from the sudden cold—but before you could shiver, his warm palms were already there, cupping your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath catch. his thumbs brushed softly over the peaks, slow and purposeful, and the contrast of his touch against your cooled skin made your back arch almost instinctively.

he chuckled, low and warm, his breath ghosting over your collarbone. “so sensitive, baby,” he murmured, like he was committing every sound you made to memory.

his mouth dipped lower again, this time latching onto one nipple, tongue flicking in slow, teasing circles while his fingers rolled the other between his fingertips. you whimpered, hips bucking lightly beneath him, needing more—needing him.

“you always get like this for me,” he said, pulling away just long enough to whisper the words directly into your skin, “so perfect, so responsive.”

his lips latched onto your other nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently—giving it the same slow, thorough attention while his free hand traced hot trails down your body. the pads of his fingers danced along your stomach, pausing just briefly at the waistband of your underwear before slipping beneath.

he didn’t rush. he touched you like he had all night—like he wanted to memorize every reaction.

his fingers found your clit, and he started slow, dragging them up and down with the lightest pressure, teasing, testing. your hips jerked at the contact, breath catching in your throat as he began to circle, gradually adding just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around him.

“s-shoyo. ngh,” you moaned, your voice shaky, almost pleading. “it feels so good…”

he hummed against your chest, clearly pleased by every sound that escaped your lips.

“yeah? already this wet for me, baby?” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. his fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit, then dipped down to gather more of your slickness before returning, dragging out every wave of sensitivity. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

then, without warning, one finger slid inside of you—slow but sure—stretching you just enough to make your back arch off the bed, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

“sh-shoyo—” you breathed, hips pushing forward instinctively.

his lips never left your skin, still trailing across your chest—kissing, sucking, his tongue flicking over your nipple with slow, deliberate devotion. every movement was purposeful, almost reverent. he touched you like you were sacred—like he needed to memorize the taste of your skin, the way your body reacted to him, every breathless sound he pulled from your lips.

then, he added another finger—sliding in beside the first, curling just right. your hips jolted as another moan escaped you, raw and needy. and when a third joined, moving in rhythm, his palm grinding softly against your clit, you swore you could’ve come undone right then. just from his fingers. just from his mouth on your chest.

“gonna cum, baby?” he asked, voice low and thick, his lips now hovering over yours.

you nodded quickly, almost desperate—but he pulled back just an inch, teasing.

“i want words, baby. tell me.”

“yes—ugh, shoyo—please, i’m gonna cum,” you gasped, barely holding it in.

that was all it took for him to smile, all soft and satisfied, before kissing you again—deep, consuming, like he wanted to feel your pleasure through your mouth.

and then it hit—your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, white-hot and blinding. your body arched, back lifting from the sheets, thighs trembling around his hand. for a moment, everything blurred, all thought wiped away by the intensity of it. all you could see were stars behind your closed eyes.

then, gently, his hand moved up to your cheek, brushing back a few damp strands of hair. his thumb caressed your skin, grounding you, coaxing you back into your body.

“you did so good,” he murmured, voice soft but thick with heat. his eyes were locked on yours, gaze heavy with something deeper—affection, need, pride. “my good girl.”

he pressed a kiss to your lips, slow and reassuring. but when he pulled back, the smirk that curved his mouth told you everything.

“but we’re not done yet.”

true to his words, hinata pulled you toward the edge of the bed, his hands firm but gentle as he guided you exactly where he wanted you. he dropped to his knees before you, eyes dark with hunger as they swept over your body—bare, flushed, and still trembling from your last orgasm.

your soaked panties were peeled off slowly, almost teasingly, before being tossed aside to join the scattered pile of clothes on the floor.

you were completely bare now. exposed. vulnerable. wanted.

his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them with ease, and he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed.

“all mine,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “so fucking beautiful.”

then he leaned in.

his tongue met your folds with no hesitation—lapping you up like he’d been craving you for days. it was messy, intense, almost greedy. he flattened his tongue against your clit, dragging slow, deliberate strokes before switching to firm, rhythmic suction that made your hips jerk and a strangled moan catch in your throat.

“fuck—shoyo,” you gasped, hand flying to his hair, fingers curling tight as he buried himself deeper.

hinata always ate you out like this. like he worshipped the taste of you. like your body was something sacred and he was the only one allowed to kneel before it. each lick, each suck, each flick of his tongue was laced with the kind of hunger that left your legs shaking around his head.

he moaned against you—low and guttural—the vibration making your toes curl. he thrived on the way you trembled, on the way your thighs tried to clamp shut around his face. and he didn’t stop. not when you cried out, not when your hips bucked up against his mouth. in fact, he gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open like a man on a mission.

“so fucking sweet,” he murmured between strokes, “you were made for this.”

your hands moved instinctively, cupping your breasts and squeezing, thumbing over your own nipples in desperate search of more friction—more of everything. and hinata looked up just long enough to see you like that—head thrown back, lips parted, hands on your chest as your body begged for more.

god, he nearly lost it right there.

“fuck—baby,” he groaned, voice rough with want, “you’re gonna make me cum just watching you touch yourself like that.”

but he didn’t stop. if anything, it spurred him on—his mouth working even faster, tongue flicking and circling your clit with purpose. his grip on your thighs tightened, dragging you impossibly closer to the edge of the bed, like he needed to be closer, like he’d crawl inside you if he could.

every moan you let out, every tremble in your legs, was feeding something wild in him. it lit him up from the inside, drove him deeper into you with an intensity that felt almost primal. he wasn’t stopping—not until you were unraveling again, trembling and wrecked, completely his.

“sho—i’m coming,” you gasped, voice breaking on the edge of a cry.

hinata looked up briefly, his eyes dark and full of hunger, lips glistening with your slick. “go on, baby,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel and heat. “cum for me. i want it—need it.”

and with that, his mouth was back on you, sucking and licking like he knew every spot that made you come undone. it didn’t take long—your second orgasm slammed into you like a jolt of lightning, thighs tightening around his head, body convulsing under the weight of your release. your hands gripped the sheets, breath catching in your throat as the pleasure surged through you.

he didn’t stop until your legs were trembling, twitching from overstimulation, and your breath came in broken gasps. only then did he slow, tongue now soft and lazy, his lips trailing reverent kisses along your inner thighs—like he was thanking you for letting him worship you.

hinata rose from between your legs, crawling back up your body. his hands smoothed over your sides, warm and grounding, gently coaxing you back to earth. he pressed his lips to your shoulder, then your collarbone, each kiss a soft anchor.

“still want to continue?” he murmured between kisses, voice low, tender—but laced with heat.

his eyes searched yours, fingers still drawing slow, soothing circles on your hips, grounding you in the moment. there was no rush in him now—just heat, reverence, and something deeper.

“of course,” you whispered, voice a little hoarse from all the moaning, but filled with certainty. your hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. he leaned into your touch instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as if grounding himself in you.

“my girl,” he breathed, so softly it was almost a prayer, before he kissed your palm, then your lips again—slower this time, but no less hungry.

with gentle care, hinata shifted beside you, adjusting your position so you were lying comfortably against the pillows. he smoothed your hair back from your face and tucked a pillow beneath your lower back, like he knew exactly what your body needed after everything.

“there,” he murmured, voice still thick with affection and desire, “comfy?”

you nodded, heart fluttering as he kissed your forehead, then your jaw, then trailed lower again, as if starting all over—but this time, slower, deeper, more deliberate.

he wasn’t just taking his time now. he was savoring you.

your hand trailed slowly down his chest, fingertips brushing over his skin with intent. you felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch—every inch of him responding to you. your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats, tugging at the knot, and without hesitation, hinata helped you, quickly shimmying out of them, his boxers following right after.

your hand wrapped around his length, warm and pulsing in your grip. he hissed softly through his teeth, his hips twitching at your touch. he was big—thick and long, the veins along his shaft prominent beneath your fingers. the sight of him, paired with the heat radiating off his body, had your mouth watering and your core clenching in anticipation.

hinata’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as you stroked him slowly, your thumb grazing the bead of precum that had gathered at the tip.

“fuck,” he breathed, voice rough and low, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

your body was already responding to him again, the ache between your thighs growing deeper, wetter, as you imagined what it would feel like to have him inside you—stretching, filling, claiming. your legs shifted restlessly beneath him, need blooming hot and fast all over again.

“shoyo, can i suck?” you asked, voice soft, eyes wide and innocent—but laced with heat. hinata swore under his breath, jaw tightening at the sight of you like that, looking up at him so sweet and desperate.

he leaned down, brushing his nose against yours as he chuckled lowly. “not now, baby. maybe next time, yeah?”

you pouted, lips pushing out slightly, and it only made his cock twitch in your hand. but he just shook his head, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“i want to pleasure you,” he murmured, voice deep with intent, “tonight’s all about you.”

he kisses you again—slow and warm, with a hint of growing urgency—before pulling back just enough to reach toward the drawer beside the bed.

his brows furrowed a little as he rummaged through it. “shit,” he muttered under his breath, still searching.

you bit back a smile, watching him with a mix of amusement and affection. “can’t find it?”

“i swear i put one in here,” he grumbled, lifting and shuffling through random things—lip balm, a stray pen, an old receipt—everything but what he needed.

“it’s okay,” you said softly, resting a hand on his arm. “i’m on the pill.”

he paused, eyes flicking to yours, the heat in them momentarily eclipsed by something tender—concern.

“are you sure, baby?” his voice was low, careful, but laced with desire.

you nodded, your thumb brushing slow circles against his skin. “you don’t have to worry about going raw with me.”

his jaw flexed, clearly affected, and he leaned in to kiss you—slow, deep, reverent. when he pulled back, his voice was rough with restraint.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

he pulls you closer, one hand gripping your hip as the other wraps around his cock. he drags the head through your folds, teasing your clit, smearing your slick over the tip and down his length. the sensation makes you gasp, hips twitching toward him.

“so wet already,” he groans, his voice low and shaky, “all for me, huh?”

he keeps rubbing the tip against you, slow and deliberate, letting the tension build. every little twitch in your thighs, every stuttered breath, was making him lose his mind.

“fuck, shoyo, stop teasing.”

your voice was breathless, almost whining, and it made him smirk—eyes dark with want.

“can’t help it,” he murmured, dragging the head of his cock over your entrance one more time, just to hear you gasp. “you’re too perfect like this. squirming for me.”

but then he leaned down, kissed you like he couldn’t bear to wait any longer—and he didn’t.

with one slow, steady push, he began to slide in, inch by inch, filling you completely.

he was big—thicker, longer than anyone you’d ever had—and your walls clung to him greedily, stretching around every inch. it burned in the best way, a slow, delicious ache that had your breath catching in your throat.

your eyes fluttered open as you pulled back from the kiss, gasping. instinctively, you looked down between you, where your bodies met—where his cock was slowly sinking deeper into you—and your stomach flipped at the sight. he wasn’t even all the way in, just halfway, but you already felt impossibly full.

“fuck,” you whispered, legs trembling, fingers digging into his shoulders. “shoyo, you’re… so big.”

he groaned, low and strained, watching every twitch in your face with hungry eyes. “you’re taking me so well, baby,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “so tight… feel so fucking good around me.”

you could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment he finally bottomed out—every inch of him snug inside you, stretching you just right. your breath hitched, and your nails dug slightly into his back as you tried to ground yourself.

hinata paused there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours. he was breathing just as hard, holding himself still for you, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. his restraint was barely holding, his muscles trembling with it.

“you okay?” he whispered, voice rough and shaky.

you nodded, lips brushing his. “you can move now, shoyo. please.”

that was all he needed.

hinata moved with a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface—now unleashed. his thrusts were deep and purposeful, hitting all the right spots with practiced ease. it was overwhelming in the best way, the drag and push of him inside you sending your mind spiraling.

he was feral, and you loved every second of it.

the way he gripped your thighs, the way his hips slammed against yours—it was like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t have enough of you. each thrust had your breath catching, your moans spilling freely into the air between you.

and god, the sounds—skin meeting skin, his low groans, your gasps—they could send you straight into cloud nine.

his name tumbled from your lips like a chant—shoyo, shoyo, shoyo—your nails digging into his back as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe. his pace was relentless, but not careless; he knew your body too well, chasing every twitch, every gasp, every tremble like it was a reward.

“look at you,” he gritted out, sweat dripping from his brow as he hovered over you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it just right. “taking me so fucking good.”

“fuck—look at that,” he growled, eyes glued to where your bodies met. his cock twitched deep inside you at the sight of your slick coating him, a creamy ring forming at the base. “you’re making such a mess on me, baby.”

his thrusts deepened, slow but punishing, each one pulling a gasp or moan from your lips. his thumb never let up on your clit, drawing tight circles that made your thighs tremble around his hips.

“feel that?” he groaned, pressing your hand down gently against your own lower belly, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild with desire. “that’s me—so deep inside you.”

you could feel it—his cock, thick and pulsing, pressing against your insides from the inside out. the sensation made your breath hitch, made your body clench tight around him, earning a low, broken moan from his lips.

“fuck, baby… you’re so wet,” he muttered, hips rolling with deeper intent now, grinding into you as if he wanted to mold himself to every part of you. “can feel you dripping all over me.”

your body was burning, shaking with overstimulation and pleasure—but the way he moved, touched, and praised you only made the fire grow hotter.

“you gonna cum for me again?” he asked, thumb working your clit faster now. “wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

"yes shoyo, fuck, i'm cumming," you moaned.

hinata pulled out just slightly before slamming back in, his thrusts becoming more erratic, rougher, deeper—chasing both your highs like he needed it to breathe.

the only words you could form were broken chants of his name, over and over, like a prayer on your tongue—and he loved it. every sound you made pushed him closer to the edge.

hinata's eyes were wide in awe at the sight before him. you looked breathtaking—mouth open in bliss, chanting his name like it was the only word you knew, your tits bouncing with every deep thrust, decorated with the red and purple marks he'd left across your skin.

to him, you weren’t just beautiful. you were a goddess—divine, untouchable, and yet here you were, unraveling just for him.

he lets out a deep, guttural groan as he feels your walls clench tighter around him. you were so close—he could feel it in the way your body trembled, in the desperate way you held onto him. and fuck, so was he.

“come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, breath shaky against your ear. “cum for me. i wanna feel you fall apart around me.”

his thrusts were deeper now, heavier—less rhythm, more need. the way you clenched around him, warm and tight, was making him unravel faster than he wanted to admit. but he held on, just long enough to get you there.

his thumb found your clit again, circling it with practiced pressure. your moans grew higher, breathier, body tensing beneath him. your hands clawed at his back, nails dragging down as the pleasure built and built until you couldn’t take it anymore.

you cried out his name, voice breaking, back arching off the mattress as your orgasm slammed into you like a wave. your whole body shook with it—legs trembling, walls fluttering around him so tightly he almost saw stars.

“that’s it,” he groaned, watching you fall apart completely. “just like that, baby. fuck—”

the way you squeezed him, so wet, so perfect, pushed him right over the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken moan, spilling inside you. his hips stilled, trembling slightly, chest heaving as he pressed his forehead against yours.

you both stayed like that for a moment, breath mingling, skin hot and slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.

“fuck… you’re perfect,” he murmured again, softer this time, almost reverent. his arms wrapped around you protectively, pulling you into his chest like you were something fragile and precious.

your fingers found his hair, running through it gently, grounding both of you. and for a few quiet seconds, the world disappeared—just him, just you, tangled in warmth and something deeper than either of you could name.

hinata leans in, breath still heavy, and begins peppering your face with soft kisses—your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere his lips could reach. between each kiss, he mumbled in that warm, husky voice, “good girl… so good for me… fuck, you’re amazing…”

his fingers gently ran up and down your sides, grounding you as your body slowly came down from the high. you were still shaking slightly, but his touch was tender, soothing. each press of his lips felt like reassurance, like he couldn’t get enough of you—not just the sex, but you.

“you did so good,” he whispered again, eyes soft as they met yours. “you’re everything.”

he pulled you closer into his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. his hand rubbed your back in slow, lazy circles while he continued to kiss your hairline.

of course, it didn’t stop with just one round.

the two of you were insatiable—drunk on each other, on every touch, every kiss, every moan that fell between tangled sheets. it was like something had snapped the moment he first slid into you, and now, neither of you could stop. time blurred, and the only thing that mattered was the way you felt in his arms, how perfectly your bodies moved together.

at one point, you were straddling him, thighs shaking but determined, riding his cock at your own rhythm. hinata laid beneath you, flushed and panting, his eyes dark with lust and adoration. his hands roamed your waist, guiding your movements as his mouth latched onto your breasts—kissing, licking, sucking like he couldn't get enough. he moaned against your skin every time you sank down fully, the wet drag of your bodies moving together making you both shudder.

"just like that, baby… ride me," he whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing against your nipple. your name tumbled from his lips like a prayer, like you were something divine—something to be worshipped.

but he needed more.

he flipped you over with ease, manhandling you like you weighed nothing. the next thing you knew, you were on your knees, face down in the pillows, your ass raised high for him. he knelt behind you, hands spreading your cheeks as he watched his cock slide back into you with ease, slick from everything you’d already shared. the angle had you seeing stars instantly, your cries muffled in the sheets.

"fuck, look at this pussy... taking me so good," he groaned, leaning forward to press his chest against your back, his hand wrapping around both your wrists and pinning them behind you. you felt so exposed, so completely at his mercy—and you loved it.

his free hand found your hip, pulling you back into him with every thrust, and then—

smack.

his palm came down on your ass, the sting blooming across your skin and making you clench around him. he grunted, losing himself a little more every time your body reacted like that.

your mind was a haze of heat and pleasure, completely undone. words stopped making sense. all you could manage were broken, breathless moans and endless chants of his name.

you had no idea how many times you'd come—three? five? more?—but every time you thought you couldn’t take anymore, hinata gave you another reason to fall apart.

he never once let you go untouched. his lips, his hands, his voice—they were all over you. his mouth kissed your spine, your shoulders, your neck. he kept whispering filthy praise, calling you his good girl, his perfect baby, his everything.

"you’re so fucking pretty when you fall apart for me," he breathed, fingers digging into your waist. "so tight—so wet. fuck, i can’t get enough."

your legs trembled, body slick with sweat, sheets tangled around your limbs—but still, you wanted more. and so did he.

and long into the night, even when your body was too spent to move, he’d still be touching you, still be pressing kisses to your skin, still making you feel wanted, worshipped—completely his.

because this wasn’t just about sex.

it was about you. and for hinata, that was everything.

you thought you were done.

your bodies were sore, your legs barely steady, and your throats hoarse from the moaning, the whispering, the breathless gasps that filled every corner of the room. the sheets were a mess—damp and tangled, the air heavy with heat and the scent of shared pleasure. both of you were exhausted, limbs tangled together as your chests rose and fell in sync, basking in the quiet aftermath.

but hinata wasn’t quite finished.

"come on," he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood. "we need a shower."

you groaned, muscles aching, but followed him into the bathroom, your hand resting in his like it belonged there. warm water began to cascade down, steam rising around you both as you stepped in together. he pulled you close beneath the stream, hands gliding over your skin with tender intent, washing away the sweat and evidence of everything you'd shared—at least, on the surface.

his fingers lingered a little too long. his gaze roamed, a spark reigniting behind those warm brown eyes. his touch shifted from gentle to teasing—thumb brushing over your nipple, hands sliding down the curve of your waist, his body pressing against yours from behind.

"i know we should stop," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot, "but you feel too good… i can't help it."

before you could answer, he was inside you again—slow, deep, the water masking your gasp as your hand gripped the slick wall for balance. you were already so full from the night, overstimulated and tender, but that only made every thrust feel more intense. every inch of him hit home, coaxing another wave of pleasure from a body that didn’t know it could take more.

"shoyo—" you whimpered, your voice trembling, but he only shushed you with a kiss to your shoulder, his pace steady, deliberate.

"just one more," he promised. “wanna feel you like this. warm, wet… mine.”

the water dripped down your bodies, slicking your skin as your back arched into him. he held you tight—one hand on your waist, the other slipping between your legs again, determined to wring out one last climax from you. and when you came, trembling under his touch, your name a breathless whisper on his lips, he followed not long after, burying himself deep with a groan of your name.

you leaned back into his chest, heart racing, your body humming with aftershocks.

and this time, when he washed you gently, carefully, whispering soft “thank yous” and “i love yous” between kisses, you knew—for sure—you weren’t just full of him.

you were full of something deeper. something lasting. something real.

you woke up the next morning feeling sore in places you didn’t even know could ache. every little movement reminded you of the night before—of his hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing heat down your skin, the way your bodies moved together again and again until you both lost count.

but the ache was worth it.

you turned your head and smiled softly at the sight beside you—hinata, fast asleep, hair tousled and lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. his body bore the evidence of everything you gave him. faint red scratches down his back, purpling love bites along his collarbone and shoulders—your marks, painted proudly on his skin.

he looked peaceful, completely undone, and yet, wholly yours.

you reached out and gently traced a finger down one of the marks on his side, careful not to wake him. he stirred a little, brow twitching, but didn’t open his eyes—just moved closer, as if even in sleep, he needed to be near you.

your heart swelled.

yeah, you were sore. but if this was the price for being loved by him—touched, marked, and held like that—it was worth every single bruise, every ache, every breathless moment.

and you’d do it all over again.

you reached over to the bedside table, grabbing your phone with a quiet click of the screen. the morning light filtered perfectly through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue across the room. it was calm, warm—the kind of stillness that made everything feel dreamlike.

slipping on hinata’s hoodie, the fabric smelled like him—clean sweat, a hint of his shampoo, and something distinctly him. it was oversized on you, falling mid-thigh and completely swallowing your frame. the warmth of it soothed your sore muscles, a comforting reminder of last night.

you padded across the room toward the mirror, tucking strands of messy hair behind your ear. something about the glow in the room and the way the hoodie fell just right made you pause. you lifted your phone, angled it slightly, and snapped a mirror selfie.

it was casual, almost innocent at a glance—hoodie-wrapped, bare legs, no makeup, just soft morning light on bare skin. but if someone looked closer, really looked, they might notice the faint silhouette behind you. hinata’s muscular back, the curve of his shoulders half-covered by the sheets, was just barely visible in the corner of the frame. not enough to be obvious—just enough to hint.

you posted it anyway. no caption, just the image.

you laid back down on the bed, the soft mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight as you turned to face him. hinata was still asleep, his breaths slow and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed you instantly.

the golden morning light streamed lazily through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room—and across him. it kissed his skin in the most delicate way, highlighting every dip and curve of his toned body. the tan of his skin looked impossibly rich in this light, glowing like sun-warmed bronze.

hinata’s eyes slowly fluttered open, adjusting to the soft golden light filtering through the curtains. it took him a second to focus, but the moment he saw you—curled beside him, wearing his hoodie, your hair a little messy and your lips curved in a sleepy smile—his heart felt like it might burst.

a soft, warm smile spread across his face as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“good morning, baby,” he murmured, his voice still raspy from sleep.

he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth waking up to. his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone, his touch lazy, affectionate. “you look so pretty right now,” he added, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the calm.

you leaned into his touch, your nose brushing against his. “you’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, and he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close until your foreheads touched. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his tone more serious, concern hidden beneath the warmth in his voice.

“sore,” you admitted, with a grin. “but worth it.”

hinata let out a low laugh and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “i went a little crazy, huh?”

you shrugged, playful. “you were just passionate.”

his grin widened. “and you were perfect.”

his hands slid down to your thighs, warm and familiar, fingers tracing soft circles against your skin. slowly, deliberately, they inched higher, slipping beneath the oversized hoodie you wore—his hoodie. his touch was gentle, teasing, but purposeful.

“shoyo,” you whined, shifting slightly under his hand, “stop... i’m still sore.”

he paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “sorry,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. “can’t help it. you’re just too pretty like this.”

his fingers rested just at the edge of your folds, not pressing further—just staying there, tempting. he leaned in, brushing his lips along your jaw, then your neck, slow and unhurried.

“i won’t do anything,” he whispered, voice low and soft. “just touching... promise.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the way your breath hitched when his thumb gently caressed the inside of your thigh, the sensation light but electric. he was taking his time, just enjoying the way your body responded to his touch—even in your sore, sensitive state.

“you’re insatiable,” you mumbled, barely suppressing a small gasp.

“only with you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, grinning against your skin. “besides... we don’t have to do anything. i just wanna feel you.”

his fingers traced the delicate curve of your folds, barely touching, just enough to make you shiver. the teasing motion sent a spark straight through your core, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

“shoyo…” you breathed, your voice already tinged with need despite the soreness lingering in your body.

he grinned against your skin, lips ghosting over your neck as he murmured, “mm, hear that? you’re already getting wet for me again.”

his fingers moved a little more deliberately now—slow, featherlight strokes that made your thighs twitch and your breath hitch. the hoodie you wore suddenly felt too warm, too heavy, as heat bloomed between your legs.

you buried your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks burned. “you’re unbelievable,” you whispered, hips tilting just barely into his touch, betraying your own resistance.

“i could say the same about you,” he chuckled, fingers now slick with your arousal. “still sore, but your body’s already begging for more.”

his free hand slid up your back, holding you close while the other toyed with you—slow, careful circles that had your stomach tightening all over again. it was maddening, how easily he could unravel you even in the quiet, golden light of morning.

“just a little more,” he whispered. “let me make you feel good again.”

hinata was insatiable, and despite the soreness still lingering in your muscles, you found yourself on top of him once again. his hoodie was now discarded and crumpled beside the bed, long forgotten in the heat that bloomed between your bodies.

your thighs trembled slightly as you straddled him, but his hands on your hips steadied you—warm, firm, possessive. his mouth was latched onto your nipple, tongue flicking and lips sucking greedily, like he couldn’t get enough of you. soft whines and gasps spilled from your mouth as his teeth grazed your sensitive skin, leaving faint love bites in his wake.

“you drive me crazy,” he murmured against your chest, voice husky, breath warm.

you began to roll your hips slowly, your slick folds gliding over him, teasing him both with friction and restraint. he groaned, his head tipping back against the pillow, the veins on his neck straining as he fought to hold himself back.

your hands splayed over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palms, and you smiled—half dazed, half wicked—as you sank down on him again.

his cock filled you deeply, stretching you open all over again, and your moan echoed his own. your pace started slow, deliberate, savoring every inch as your walls clenched around him.

“fuck—just like that,” he gritted out, hands tightening on your waist as you bounced on his cock, the wet sound of skin against skin filling the room.

every movement made your breasts bounce, and he couldn’t help but sit up, wrapping his arms around you, mouth finding your chest again as if he’d been starved for it.

“you’re so perfect like this,” he murmured between kisses. “riding me like you were made for it.”

and in that moment, with the sunlight casting a golden glow across your bare skin and his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, it was impossible to disagree. every thrust, every moan, every desperate kiss he pressed to your collarbone made you feel like the center of his world—and you basked in it, drowning in the overwhelming pleasure only he could pull from you.

of course, hinata didn’t stop until he’d wrung two more orgasms from you—each one more intense than the last. your body trembled, overstimulated and utterly spent, but he held you through it, whispering soft praise and brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face.

“that’s it, baby… you’re amazing,” he murmured, voice rough but tender as he kissed your temple.

by the time he pulled the blankets over both of you, tucking you into his chest, you were already slipping back into sleep. your breathing slowed, your limbs heavy and warm, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

he held you close, one arm wrapped protectively around your waist, his lips resting against your forehead as the morning quiet settled around you both.

when you woke up again you felt the other side of the bed empty.

"he probably went to the gym."

your guess was spot on the moment you saw the instagram notification pop up on your screen: shoyo_hinata just posted a photo.

curious, you opened it—only to nearly choke on your own breath. it was a picture of his back, shirtless, his toned muscles on full display and unmistakably covered in fresh scratch marks. red, raw, and clearly recent. and the caption? just a smirking emoji and a volleyball. classic hinata. subtle, but not really.

your own post from earlier—taken just an hour before—was now blowing up too. the mirror selfie you’d casually posted in his hoodie, his faint silhouette in the background, had fans in full detective mode. and they were ruthless.

your notifications were in chaos.

@spikemyheart: OH MY GOD IS THAT HINATA IN THE BACK??? @liberoinmydreams: wait the scratch marks on his post… YOU DID THAT??? @sweatyforthevballboys: y’all are literally feral i’m not even mad @kneesforhinata: this is so nsfw and i LOVE IT @softservequeen: you’re sore aren’t you. blink twice if you need electrolytes 💀

later that afternoon, hinata came back to the hotel room, still a little damp from the post-training shower he’d taken at the venue, his bag slung over his shoulder and a smug grin playing on his lips.

he dropped the bag by the door, immediately walking over to where you were lounging on the bed, scrolling through your phone—still trying to recover from the wild fan theories flooding your dms and comments.

“so…” he started, plopping down beside you and tugging you close until you were tucked against his chest. “guess the internet had a little meltdown today, huh?”

you groaned, hiding your face against his neck. “don’t even start. some people are already making tiktoks syncing the posts with timestamps and analyzing the lighting.”

hinata chuckled, low and satisfied. “well… serves them right. we were subtle. kinda.”

you looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “subtle? you posted your back covered in scratches like you just survived a bear attack.”

he shrugged, clearly unbothered. “what? it’s art.”

then he tilted his head slightly, grin turning mischievous. “but hey…” he leaned in, brushing his lips just shy of your ear. “you think they’re still gonna link you with that actor now?”

you stiffened, pulling back to stare at him. “shoyo—”

he laughed, fully amused at your expression. “what? just saying. guess they know exactly who made those marks now, huh?”

you smacked his shoulder lightly, cheeks burning. “you’re impossible.”

“mmh. maybe. but at least now they know you’re mine.” he said it so easily, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

as if on cue, your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up with a message from your pr team:

[urgent – need you at the office asap. call when you’re en route.]

you stared at it for a moment, dread pooling in your stomach. hinata glanced down at your expression, then raised a brow. “bad timing?”

you sighed, sitting up slowly and tossing your phone onto the bed with a groan. “it’s my pr team. i think they saw the posts.”

he leaned back on his hands, clearly not surprised. “oh, now they noticed?”

you shot him a look. “they’re probably trying to figure out how to spin this before it explodes more than it already has.”

hinata just grinned, watching you pull his hoodie back on. “want me to say i scratched myself in my sleep?”

you blinked at him, deadpan. “please never say that in front of my publicist.”

he chuckled, standing up and helping you gather your things, stealing a kiss here and there as you tried to get dressed. “don’t stress, babe. worst case, we just tell them the truth.”

“that i spent the weekend getting railed by japan’s volleyball star?”

“well…” he smirked, leaning in to kiss your neck. “worked out pretty great for both our engagement, didn’t it?”

you shook your head, unable to fight your smile as you grabbed your phone again. chaos or not, the internet could wait. but your publicist definitely couldn’t.

you sat inside the sleek glass-walled conference room of your agency’s office, dressed in a hoodie you borrowed (stole) from hinata’s suitcase and a pair of oversized sunglasses to shield your face from curious stares. despite the casual outfit, the room was filled with an unmistakable energy. your manager, two assistants, and even someone from the PR team were all seated across the table — and right next to you was hinata, legs sprawled, hand casually resting on your thigh under the table like this wasn’t the most high-stakes meeting of your month.

you felt slightly overwhelmed, if not dazed, from the sudden turn your morning had taken. not even an hour ago, you were in bed, your hair still damp from a too-long shower turned… something else. now you were staring at a stack of documents and your manager practically vibrating with excitement.

“okay, i’m just going to say it,” your manager started, slapping a stack of printouts on the table. “this is insane — and i mean that in the best way possible.”

you raised a brow. “what is?”

“you. hinata. the photo. both of your photos. the internet basically exploded.” she turned a few pages, revealing printed-out screenshots of social media reactions. “you broke the algorithm.”

hinata leaned in, amused, as your manager continued. “people figured it out immediately. ‘oh my god, is that hinata’s back?’ ‘are those her nails on his shoulder?’ and don’t get me started on the slow-motion analysis videos on tiktok.”

you felt heat rise to your cheeks. “they’re analyzing the nails?”

“yes,” one of the assistants chimed in. “there’s already a fan account documenting your ‘secret soft launch’ relationship timeline.”

hinata chuckled beside you. “i told you they’d figure it out. you think they’re still gonna link you with that actor guy now?”

you shot him a side glance. “i forgot about him.”

“your pr team didn’t,” said the woman from PR, adjusting her glasses. “but don’t worry. that ship has officially sailed. now, onto the real news…”

she pulled up a presentation on her laptop and turned it toward you. “endorsements. projects. appearances. not just for you individually — but together. turns out, everyone wants a piece of the ‘it couple.’”

you stared at the screen in disbelief. makeup brands, fashion lines, travel companies, even a luxury watch brand — all with interest in pairing you and hinata together for campaigns. one of them was a magazine shoot titled undeniable chemistry. another was a high-profile drama offer for a couple-centric storyline, with an optional steamy twist if “the actors are comfortable.”

hinata whistled under his breath. “we’re gonna be busy.”

your manager grinned. “if you say yes to even half of these, you’re set for the year.”

you leaned back in your chair, overwhelmed but not entirely displeased. the idea of working so closely with hinata was… distracting in a way that made your stomach flutter. he must’ve sensed it, because his thumb gently rubbed slow circles on your thigh under the table.

“so,” your manager asked, eyes expectant. “do we want to ride the wave?”

hinata answered before you could. “yeah. we’re in.”

you looked at him, wide-eyed. “you’re just going to agree to everything?”

“not everything,” he said, smirking. “but the stuff with you? absolutely.”

you tried to play it cool, but the way his voice dipped lower at the end made something in you stir. you crossed your legs, subtly pressing them together.

“fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “we’ll look through the offers.”

“great,” the PR rep said. “oh, and… try to keep it PG for a bit. at least until the magazine cover drops.”

hinata gave a lazy shrug. “no promises.”

you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “this is going to be a lot.”

“maybe,” hinata said, grinning at you sideways. “but at least it’ll be fun.”

and deep down, even with your nerves tangled and your heart racing, you knew he was right.

you eventually left the meeting with a folder full of contracts, a dozen potential collaborations swirling in your head, and hinata’s hand still comfortably entwined with yours. the hallway buzzed with agency staff and interns sneaking glances, whispering to each other, probably already texting their friends about seeing you two together in person.

as the elevator doors closed, hinata leaned against the mirrored wall, watching you with that lazy, satisfied smile.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now that it was just the two of you.

you looked down at your reflection, then up at his. “i don’t know. i think so? it’s a lot. but also kind of… exciting.”

he tilted his head. “scary?”

“a little,” you admitted.

hinata reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear. “well, don’t worry. we’ll figure it out.”

“you sure about that?”

he leaned in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “you’re stuck with me now. might as well enjoy it.”

you laughed under your breath, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, letting the moment settle. the doors opened with a soft ding, and the sunlight poured in once more, casting that same golden glow that started this whole thing.

you stepped out together — not just into the lobby, not just into a brand-new set of projects and headlines — but into something that felt, for once, completely right.

you didn’t look back.